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ROSS O’CARROLL-KELLY THE HILARIOUS NO.1 BESTSELLER Camino

‘Side-splitting . . . Fair focks’ HOT PRESS

Camino Royale

Camino Royale

Ross O’Carroll-Kelly (as told to Paul Howard)

Illustrated by Alan Clarke

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First published by Sandycove 2023 Published in Penguin Books 2024 001

Copyright © Paul Howard, 2023

Illustrator copyright © Alan Clarke, 2023

The moral right of the copyright holders has been asserted

Penguin Books thanks O’Brien Press for its agreement to Sandycove using the same design approach and typography, and the same artist, as O’Brien Press used in the first four Ross O’Carroll-Kelly titles.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library isbn : 978–0–241–99761–1 www.greenpenguin.co.uk

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For Faith O’Grady

Prologue

I’m an optimist –  yeah, no, famously so? When an Ireland squad is announced, I always check to see if I’m in it. Even at thirty-nine years old. That’s just how I am. Full of dumb con dence. So when Sorcha sends me a text and asks me to pop over to the house tonight, after the kids have gone to bed, I instantly assume it’s because she wants me back.

I spend the early port of the evening doing sits-ups, then I throw on the black Deliveroo hoodie I bought on eBay back in the day after Sorcha drunkenly confessed that one of her fantasies was having sex on the stairs with a random food delivery goy.

I got a lot of wear out of the thing on our role-play nights, which quite possibly Roe McDermott in the Irish Times magazine said were a good way of keeping a relationship fresh and interesting. Jesus, I even splashed out on a mountain bike, really committing to the port. I should give myself more credit as a husband.

Sorcha was so seriously into it – even adding little storyline twists, like pretending that she couldn’t nd her purse and asking me if I could think of any other way she could pay for her Nando’s pitta triangles with hummus and PERi-PERi drizzle –  that I storted to genuinely worry whenever she phoned for takeout and I wasn’t actually home.

Anyway, I throw it on me as I’m on my way out the door. As I said, an optimist. Such an optimist, in fact, that it’s only when I’m taking the turn o the roundabout onto Ballinclea Road that I stort to think that maybe she’s not looking for sex and what if the reason she wants to see me has something to do with her sister (still don’t know her name) being pregnant and me being potentially the father?

As I pull up outside the house, I actually consider taking the hoodie o , but the optimist in me ends up winning out, as it usually does, which is one of the things I love about myself. But then, as I

press the doorbell, I notice her old man’s cor in the driveway and my hort storts to beat faster, wondering do they know.

Sorcha answers the door. She’s still dressed for work, even though it’s, like, ten o’clock at night. She looks wrecked –  so much so that she doesn’t even notice the hoodie as she opens the door wider and invites me in.

I’m there, ‘Er, how are you?’ still not knowing if I’m walking into an ambush here. For all I know, the sister might have told her that she pretty much seduced me on the day I moved out.

‘Tired,’ she goes – which I can see with my own eyes.

‘You don’t look tired,’ I go. ‘You look amazing, in fairness to you.’

It’s possibly the tone of my voice –  I’m going to use the word seductive ? –  that suddenly brings her to her senses. She notices the Deliveroo logo on my chest, then also, at my feet, the giant, cubeshaped thermal delivery bag –  I forgot to mention that we also bought a giant, cube-shaped thermal delivery bag –  and she goes, ‘Oh my God!’ in a highly outraged voice. ‘I can’t believe you thought you were coming here for that !’

I’m there, ‘Maybe I misread the text.’

But –  again –  she’s like, ‘We are never, ever doing that again! Get that through your thick focking skull!’

‘Doing what again?’ a voice goes.

Yeah, no, it ends up being her old man. He steps out of the kitchen and stares at me like I’m a focking fan dancer at a funeral.

Sorcha quickly goes, ‘Nothing,’ because she obviously doesn’t want her precious dad to know the kind of shit his little princess gets up to when she’s in the mood, like asking me to whisper, ‘Your rider is Julio!’ in her ear while we’re doing it and I hope that doesn’t come across as indiscreet.

Sorcha looks me in the eye and goes, ‘I don’t know if you heard but my sister is pregnant.’ Shit.

I’m there, ‘No way.’

But she’s like, ‘Yes way,’ and she carries on staring at me –  we’re talking full eye contact.

I’m there, ‘I hope you don’t think –’

She’s like, ‘What?’ and she seems to genuinely mean it?

‘Yeah, no, nothing,’ I go, sorry I even opened my mouth. ‘You can continue saying stu .’

She’s like, ‘After everything I said to Oisinn and Magnus about her not being an appropriate person to carry their baby, they went ahead and chose her as a surrogate anyway. I’m furious with her, of course. But mostly I’m angry with them ?’

I’m there, ‘That’s, em, pretty out of order alright. Which sister is it again?’ hoping that she’ll nally give me the name.

She’s like, ‘Which sister? I only have one sister and that’s –’

But her old man is obviously terri ed by the prospect of me worming my way back in there and, before she manages to say the name, he goes, ‘Can we get on with this thing?’

Sorcha’s there, ‘Yes, let’s skip the pleasantries and do that.’

I’m like, ‘What’s this thing? As in, what am I actually doing here?’

Sorcha looks at her old man, who nods once, then she looks back at me again.

‘I want you to sign something,’ she goes.

I’m there, ‘If it’s the divorce papers, I might need to think about it. I’m not sure I even believe in divorce?’

‘No, you’re getting it confused with monogamy,’ she goes. ‘It’s monogamy you don’t believe in.’

He sort of, like, chuckles to himself. He’s loving every minute of this. He’s waited long enough for it, in fairness to the dude.

She goes, ‘We are getting divorced, Ross. But, in the meantime, I need you to sign a piece of paper – basically, a statement.’

‘A statement? Saying?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘As in, what does the statement supposably say?’

She takes a deep breath and it comes back out as a sigh.

‘It says that we’ve been separated for the last ve years,’ she goes. ‘We continued to cohabitate for the sake of our children, but we’ve been living very much separate lives under the same roof for all of that time.’

I’m there, ‘But that’d be a lie, Sorcha.’

She’s like, ‘Yes, I know that,’ and she can’t even look at me when she says it.

Sister Austrebertha would be spinning like a rotisserie chicken in her grave. She knows it and I know it. She looks down at her feet.

I’m there, ‘So why do you want me to sign a statement telling a lie?’ and for a few seconds I have her on the big-time back foot. ‘You know, especially given that you led the Rosary at the last Mount Anville Past Pupils Union Prayers and Prosecco event.’

‘Because,’ he ends up going, trying to spare her blushes, ‘you’re about to go to prison for exposing yourself in public and pinning the blame on someone else. So my daughter, naturally, wants to put distance between you both.’

I’m there, ‘I didn’t expose myself. I took my orse out in a pub. And that was back in the pre-woke days when that kind of thing was considered hilarious.’

Of course, he wouldn’t know that, having zero interest in rugby. He just gives me a look that’s as lthy as my internet search history. We’re talking, like, genuine, genuine contempt. I’m sure this is all very triggering for him, reminding him of the night in Pearl Brasserie when I got focked up on tequila, turned my trouser pockets inside-out and did my famous elephant impression that still makes Seán O’Brien honk with laughter to this day.

I’m there, ‘Is me doing a mooner in The Thomond Bor really what’s upsetting you? Or was it me taking my mickey out in front of your family and friends at your twenty- fth wedding anniversary dinner?’

In that moment, he looks mad enough to kill me with his bare hands.

‘Ross, please,’ Sorcha goes, ‘you being chorged with indecent exposure and perverting the course of justice is obviously very embarrassing for me and I’m talking politically. But if you end up going to prison –’

I’m there, ‘I might not go to prison.’

‘–  if you end up going to prison, that could be the end of my political career.’

‘And, what, working for my old man, who burned down the Dáil himself, Sorcha, that isn’t embarrassing politically?’

‘Ross, I don’t want this overshadowing my legislative agenda for the rest of 2019!’ she pretty much roars at me – and then, in a softer voice, she goes, ‘Ross, you owe me this.’

I look at her and it’s weird because I know in that moment that it’s, like, de nitely, de nitely over between us? And I feel sad thinking that she’ll never again dig her ngernails into my head and shout, ‘Oh, Julio! Ride me like I’m your delivery bike and you’ve a bagful of orders going cold!’ and I’ll never get to use my brilliant ‘Order Successfully Delivered!’ line as she lies on the stairs in a postsexual daze.

‘Fine,’ I go, realizing that the game is up here. ‘I’ll do it.’

Sorcha smiles. She’s like, ‘Thank you, Ross.’

But he goes, ‘Don’t thank him. It’s the least you deserve after what he’s put you through for the last – how many years? Let him go to jail and rot there, I say.’

I’m like, ‘Where is it? As in, this famous statement?’

‘It’s in the kitchen,’ she goes, then she leads the way. He makes sure to come too. Yeah, no, he doesn’t want any slip-ups at this late stage.

The statement is sitting on top of the island. It’s, like, ten lines long but I don’t bother my hole even reading it. I just pick up the pen that’s sitting beside it and I scribble my name at the bottom with a big ourish – like when I used to practise my autograph back in school.

‘Can you put your second name as well?’ she goes, so I add the O’Carroll and the Kelly.

She’s like, ‘Thank you.’

I’m just about to ask if I can pop upstairs to see Brian, Johnny and Leo, but then I remember that I saw them last weekend –  they were very focking annoying – and that was probably enough. And that’s when, out of nowhere, her old man ends up suddenly losing it with me?

He goes, ‘Why the hell are you wearing that?’ and I just assume he’s talking about the Deliveroo hoodie. Having had enough of his shit for one night, I end up going, ‘What, this thing? If you must know, me and your daughter used to play this kinky game where she ordered food for delivery and paid for it with sex.’

‘Oh! My God!’ Sorcha goes, putting her hand over her mouth.

I’m there, ‘The reason she was limping at your twenty- fth anniversary dinner, by the way, was corpet burns on her orse.’

Sorcha’s like, ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’

And that’s when the dude goes, ‘I’m talking about your wedding ring!’

I’m there, ‘Alriiighty – slight breakdown in communication there.’

He goes, ‘Take it o !’ and he grabs me violently by the wrist and –  I shit you not –  storts literally trying to pull the thing o my nger.

Sorcha screams. She’s like, ‘Dad! Stop it!’

And I’m there going, ‘What the fock? What the actual focking fock?’ because he’s hurting me. Yeah, no, I don’t mind admitting, I’m not the whippet-thin number ten I was when Sorcha and I rst got hitched.

‘Get it o you!’ the dude goes –  in an absolute rage, by the way? ‘You’re not married to my daughter any more!’

I’m there, ‘I am still technically ?’ but he’s having none of it.

Still clutching my wrist, he literally drags me over to the fridge, tears open the door and whips out the Low Low Gold.

Sorcha’s like, ‘What are you doing?’ and she’s practically hysterical.

He’s there, ‘If it won’t come o naturally, I’m going to have to use this,’ and the next thing I know he’s sticking his hand into the tub and smearing my nger in butter.

He storts pulling again and, I swear to fock, I’m in absolute agony. I should deck the focker – God knows, he’s had it coming for years –  but it’s like he’s suddenly got this, I don’t know, superhuman strength. It’s like all the shit I’ve thrown at him over the years has turned him into a monster –  one who’s in serious danger of dislocating my nger.

Sorcha’s still going, ‘Dad, stop! Dad, please, stop!’ but the dude won’t be told.

I end up just howling. I’m like, ‘Oooooouuuuuuwwwwww!!!!!!’

The ring still won’t budge, even with my left hand covered in butter, which makes him even angrier.

I’m like, ‘Dude, chillax. I’ll lose a bit of weight –  especially now

that it looks like I’m going to be back on the dating scene,’ but he’s not listening to reason.

He drags me over to the counter where the chopping board sits and that’s when Sorcha ends up totally losing it. She’s, like, screaming at the top of her voice, going, ‘Dad, no! No! I don’t want this!’

And of course I have no idea what this is until he throws open the cutlery drawer with his free hand and pulls out the good Sabatier bread knife.

I’m like, ‘What the fock?’ as he slams my hand down on the chopping board. And now it’s my turn to scream? Because the mad bastard is going to do it – he’s going to saw o my actual nger.

I’m there, ‘Dude, no! No! Noooooo!!!!!!’

And that’s when I hear a sudden clunk behind me. Sorcha’s old man drops the knife and falls to the ground. I turn around and Brian, Johnny and Leo are standing there in their pyjamas, Leo with a wok in his hand, having pretty much knocked Sorcha’s old man out cold.

‘What . . . the hell –’ the dude grumbles, no idea what day of the week it is.

I’m like, ‘Boys! It’s great to see you!’ and I’m not actually lying for once.

Brian snatches the wok out of Leo’s hand, steps forward and gives his grandfather a second crack over the head with the thing. And while I’m tempted to step out of the room and leave them to it, Sorcha insists on taking it out of his hand.

‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘just get out of the house – before my dad comes round.’

So I decide to call it a day –  down a wife, but at least with all my ngers still attached.

Sorcha gets down on her hunkers to see if he’s okay. A second or two later, he raises his head.

He goes, ‘Get him out of here, Sorcha! Please! Before I kill him!’

So – yeah, no – I’m in Erika’s ga on Ailesbury Road, which is, like, home to me and Honor now? Or at least for the moment. Erika has taken Amelie and Honor shopping for the morning and I decide to make myself useful by doing the laundry. I tip into Erika’s room and I stort pulling things out of her, like, laundry basket.

I absolutely love the smell of her clothes and I don’t mean that in, like, a pervy way. She’s my actual half-sister –  as I’m constantly reminding myself. What I mean is that I’ve always loved the smell of Symphony by Louis Vuitton, which is, like, her signature scent. I hold her light blue Adriano Goldschmied shirt up to my nose and mouth and I breathe in. It smells unbelievable – gorgeous, even.

After about ve minutes of doing this, I end up feeling a little bit faint and that’s when I hear a voice go, ‘What the fock are you doing?’

Yeah, no, Erika is standing at the door of her bedroom, shopping bags swinging from her ngers and a look of horror on her face.

I’m like, ‘Hey, Erika, how was Dundrum?’ trying to style it out.

She’s there, ‘I asked you a focking question,’ snatching her shirt out of my hand and also a pair of black lace knickers that I also just so happen to be holding. ‘What are you doing?’

I’m there, ‘In a word, laundry.’

‘You were sni ng my dirty clothes.’

‘Hey, I happen to love the smell of Symphony by Louis Vuitton. I’m not going to apologize for that.’

‘Just stay out of my focking room. You’re sick in the focking head.’

I’m like, ‘Fair enough. Does Helen have anything for the wash, do you know?’

‘Stay away from my mother’s clothes as well. Jesus Christ, Ross,

what the fock is wrong with you? You’ve already been cancelled for being a focking pervert.’

‘Can I just remind you – and the rest of the public – that I haven’t been found guilty of anything yet?’

‘The coach of the Ireland women’s team exposing himself in public. You know you’re never going to get a job in rugby again?’

‘Yeah, no, they weren’t exactly queueing up to employ me before I took my orse out in The Thomond Bor.’

As I’m heading for the door, she goes, ‘You heard that Sorcha’s sister is pregnant, did you?’

I’m there, ‘Er, yeah, no, I did. Sorcha’s not happy about it.’

‘What focking business is it of hers?’ Erika goes –  this is the girl who used to be her bezzy mate, by the way. ‘Oisinn and Magnus are happy. They’re going to be parents.’

I’m like, ‘Hmmm,’ not wanting to commit myself one way or the other. ‘Hmmm-hmmm.’

‘Anyway,’ she goes, ‘can you fock o now because I need to get changed?’

‘Are you going out again?’

‘I’m going to Dóchas.’

‘Is that the new co ee shop on Monkstown Crescent? I’ve heard good things.’

‘It’s the focking women’s prison, Ross.’

‘Oh . . . that Dóchas. That’s why you’re changing out of your good clothes. You’re presumably going to visit See-mon?’

‘It’s pronounced Sea-mon.’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m saying. How the hell is she?’

‘How do you think she is?’

Yeah, no, Simone is Sorcha’s former Special Adviser, who’s been chorged with burning down the Dáil, even though we all know she was tted up by Hennessy.

I’m there, ‘Have they set a date for, like, her trial yet?’

She goes, ‘They’re saying it could be November or December. I’ve got her a new solicitor and he’s pretty con dent that he can get her out on bail until then.’

‘Fair focks, Erika. Here, tell her I said hello, will you?’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a gure of speech, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not exactly going to make her day, is it?’

‘Probably not.’

I step out onto the landing, then I turn back – just as she’s taking her good sweater o over her head. Yeah, no, she’s standing there in just her bra.

She’s like, ‘For fock’s sake, Ross.’

‘Sorry,’ I go, ‘I just wanted to ask you something.’

She still has a great bod in fairness to her –  and I mean that in a non-sexual way? Her boozies are like two scoops of butter pecan sorbet and I’m saying that as a technically blood relative.

‘What?’ she goes, trying to cover up with her orms.

I’m like, ‘Errr,’ totally thrown for a minute.

My face feels suddenly hot.

She’s there, ‘You said you wanted to ask me something.’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry,’ I go. ‘Tell me this, will you? What’s Sorcha’s sister’s name?’

‘Her name?’ she goes.

‘Yeah, no, what is it – as in what actually?’

She looks at me like I’m as dippy as a dump truck.

She goes, ‘How could you not know your wife’s sister’s name? Jesus Christ, you’ve slept with her, haven’t you?’

I’m like, ‘Hmmm.’

‘Did you come back to ask me that just so you could see me in my bra?’

‘No.’

But she goes, ‘Fock’s sake, Ross! You sick focker!’ and she slams the bedroom door in my face.

So –  yeah, no –  I tip downstairs and I nd Honor in the kitchen, giving little Amelie a – believe it or not – makeover ?

‘Hi, Uncle Ross!’ the kid goes. ‘Honor is plucking my eyebrows!’

And I’m like, ‘That’s good! How was Dundrum?’

‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘Honor bought me my rst ever pair of, like, high-heel shoes and she’s going to teach me how to, like, walk in them?’

I sort of, like, smile to myself. It’s nice to see them bonding like this, my daughter and Erika’s daughter, whatever they are to each other – half-cousins, I suppose.

‘Amelie,’ Honor goes, ‘will you go upstairs and get my Charlotte Tilbury eyebrow pencil? It’s on my dressing table.’

O the kid runs.

I laugh. I’m there, ‘Looks like she’s turning into your Mini-Me!’

Except Honor isn’t listening. She’s reading a text and sort of, like, smiling to herself.

They say you should always take an interest in what your kids are up to, so I go, ‘Who’s that, Honor?’

She’s like, ‘Mind your own focking business.’

And I’m there, ‘Hey, I was just asking, Honor. Ticking a box.’

She sends a text back, then she goes, ‘It’s just a boy.’

I’m like, ‘A boy?’

‘Before you ask,’ she goes, ‘the answer is Blackrock College.’

I nod and try not to let my feelings show in my face.

‘Excuse me?’ she goes.

I’m there, ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You said “focking wanker”,’ she goes.

Yeah, no, it’s quite possible I did – it’s, like, an automatic thing?

I’m there, ‘Does he have a name, this focking –’

She goes, ‘His name is Joel.’

I’m like, ‘Joel? Yeah, no, I can already picture him. And what, are you, like, going out with each other?’

‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘your generation are, like, so obsessed with labels.’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, maybe you’re right. Back in my day, relationships were a lot simpler. There was going out with someone and then there was seeing someone. There was also being with someone. And obviously being with with someone. It’s a lot more complicated now.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I saw your old dear last night. She was asking for you.’

‘Was that a lie?’

‘Yeah, no, pretty much.’

‘She hates my focking guts.’

‘I wouldn’t say she hates your guts, Honor.’

‘Then why did she throw me out of the house?’

‘She’s just upset. I mean, you kidnapped that boy.’

‘It wasn’t focking kidnapping.’

‘Well, you smashed him over the head, put him in the boot of your old dear’s cor and drove up him to the Sally Gap. He missed the Leinster Schools Senior Cup nal.’

‘He deserved everything he got.’

‘He did deserve everything he got.’

Except missing the Leinster Schools Senior Cup nal. No one deserves that.

‘She’s just terri ed that it’s going to get out,’ she goes, ‘like you exposing yourself in public –’

I’m there, ‘It was a mooner, Honor. I thought you were on my side.’

‘– and it’ll damage her so-called political career.’

‘Well, that one won’t get out. Hennessy paid everyone o .’

Yeah, no, including Reese’s old pair – and the Feds, who agreed to forget the entire incident.

‘How are the boys?’ Honor goes.

She misses them.

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I only saw them brie y. Leo smashed Sorcha’s old man over the head with a wok.’

She’s like, ‘Hill! Air!’

‘Yeah, no, the dude was trying to saw my nger o at the time.’

‘Oh! My God!’

‘That’s what your old dear said. Word for word. Her sister’s pregnant, by the way.’

‘I know. I saw it on her Instagram. So the baby will be, like, my cousin, right?’

If I end up being the father, God focking knows what it’ll be.

I’m there, ‘So she’s, em, on Instagram, is she?’

‘Yeah, hilarious,’ she goes, ‘she’s just storted working in this, like, hair removal salon in, like, Bray of all places. It’s called, like, The Waxy Dorgle!’

I’m like, ‘Jesus. No wonder the family have practically disowned her. I must give her a follow on – like you said – Instagram.’

She’s there, ‘Whatever.’

‘What’s her name again?’

She looks at me like I’m out of my bin.

She’s there, ‘Her what?’

I’m like, ‘Her name.’

‘You don’t know your sister-in-law’s name?’

‘Yeah, no, I’ve just forgotten it. I think I’ve got a touch of that oldtimer’s disease!’

She sighs and goes, ‘Her name is –’

And at that exact moment, her phone rings. She looks at the screen.

‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘it’s Joel! Dad, can you please fock o so that I can talk to him in private?’

‘So what do you think?’ the old man goes.

I’m there, ‘What do you mean, what do I think? It’s just, like, a banknote with, I don’t know, some random old dude on it.’

I fock it back across the table at him – which is something I wouldn’t usually do? It’s just that it looks like the kind of funny money they try to slip into your change in Ronan’s old local in Finglas.

The old man laughs.

He’s there, ‘Did you hear that, Fionnuala? That random old dude –  as you call him, Kicker – just so happens to be the late, great CJH!’

I’m like, ‘Who?’ and I genuinely mean it.

‘Aha!’ he goes. ‘I can see where you’re going with this, Ross! Trying to entice your old dad, as you call me, into one of our famous political dissensions on the subject of the great man’s legacy! He’s incorrigible, Fionnuala! Absolutely incorrigible!’

I have literally no idea what he’s talking about. But I decide to ask him – making the e ort, as you do with your parents.

‘What the fock does it have to do with me,’ I go, ‘focking, I don’t know, Dick Features?’

He’s like, ‘Excellent question, Kicker! The answer is that you’re going to be seeing these everywhere in a few short weeks! Because

on the rst day of July, in the year two thousand and nineteen –  Anno Domini! –  we shall be leaving the Euro and returning to the punt!’

I’m there, ‘On second thoughts, give me that back, will you?’

I snatch it back from him and throw my eyes over it again. Yeah, no, it’s, like, a fty ?

He’s like, ‘I knew you’d want one of the rst ones to roll o the presses, Ross! Notwithstanding your reservations about Haughey as a statesman on the world stage!’

I’m there, ‘Can you get me more of these?’

He’s like, ‘Of course I can! I’m the bloody well Taoiseach!’

I’m there, ‘About two or three hundred of them would be great. Like you said, they’re collector’s items.’

‘And you’ll never guess whose face I’ve chosen to adorn the twenty-pound note!’ he goes. ‘Your friend and mine –  Seánie Fitz! Oh, the chap was cock-a-hoop when I phoned him personally with the news, Ross! Cock-a-hoop!’

‘I’ll take ve hundred of those. No, make it a thousand.’

‘You see, I knew you were a fan!’

The old dear goes, ‘Did you tell him the other news, Chorles?’

Jesus Christ, I thought her without make-up was the most disgusting sight I’d ever seen until I saw her eating a breakfast frittata without her dental plate in.

‘We’re returning to the southside,’ she goes.

I’m there, ‘Can you maybe not talk with your mouth full? You’re focking spraying me with egg here. Hang on, what do you mean you’re returning to the southside? You mean you’re moving out of the Áras?’

‘Oh, no, we have no intention of leaving the Áras,’ she goes. ‘Your father is going to move the river.’

I actually laugh.

I’m like, ‘You’re shitting me,’ and I look at him when I say it, because he’s the one who supposably doesn’t have dementia? ‘Please tell me you’re shitting me.’

He goes, ‘I have requested the O ce of Public Works to undertake –  as a matter of the utmost urgency –  the job of

rerouting the famous River Li ey! Exclamation mork! Exclamation mork! Exclamation mork!’

Again, I laugh.

I’m like, ‘Rerouting it? Rerouting it where?’

‘Well, initially,’ he goes, ‘through Cabra and Ashtown.’

‘Are those the names of places on the northside?’

‘Correct! Then through Castleknock! That’s the route they feel will involve the least disruption and require the fewest number of houses to be demolished!’

‘So, what, you’re knocking down people’s actual homes to do this?’

‘Only about two hundred or so! They’ll be compensated, Hennessy has assured me! Provided they have the stomach for the legal ght! You know what he’s like, Kicker! An absolute bastard, of course! I’m just glad he’s our bastard!’

‘And all just so you can say that you live on the southside?’

The old dear goes, ‘What’s wrong with that?’

I end up just shaking my head. I’m like, ‘Nothing –  for you two anyway. I suppose it’s, like, por for the course.’

The old man reaches into his jacket pocket and whips out a Montecristo the size of a child of school-going age.

He goes, ‘By the way, Ross, your mother and I were very saddened to hear the news that you and Sorcha have decided to port ways! She’s a much-loved member of this family as well as a valued Cabinet colleague.’

I’m there, ‘We didn’t decide to port ways. She focked me out. Because I did a mooner in a pub in Cork and tried to pin the entire thing on Fionn.’

The old man just shakes his head.

‘Since when did taking your orse out in public become a matter for the Gordaí?’ he goes. ‘It’s political what’s-it gone mad!

Quote-unquote!’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, whatever.’

‘Ross, you really must let Hennessy do something about those chorges! I mean, what’s the point of having the Attorney General as your godfather if you can’t ask him to help you out of the occasional – inverted commas – pickle?’

‘Because I’ve decided to own it. For once in my life, I’m taking responsibility for my own shit.’

‘But why on earth would you want to do that? Hennessy could make the case just disappear! Or make sure it’s heard by a sympathetic judge! Dare I say it, a rugby judge! This is still bloody well Ireland after all.’

‘And what would the cost of that be?’

‘What do you mean? No money would change hands! It’s rugby, Ross!’

‘Bullshit. The dude told me himself that he’d only help me if I persuaded Ronan to come back from the States to work for him.’

‘Well, you know how I feel about that particular issue! Young Ronan belongs here! With Shadden and Rihanna-what’s-it! And, yes –  as you say –  it was Hennessy’s dream that Ronan would one day take over the business from him!’

‘And what business is that exactly?’

He tries to go, ‘The legal business, of course!’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, right,’ at the same time getting to my feet. I’m suddenly not hungry any more.

‘Oh, one last thing,’ the old man goes, ‘before you leave, Kicker –  tell me, what are you doing a week on Friday?’

I’m like, ‘The usual. Getting pissed in The Bridge –  that’s if I’m not still borred. I’ll have to check with Heaslip.’

‘Well, forget all of that! The future Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland –  the famous Boris Johnson! –  is visiting and I’m hosting an informal dinner for the chap! Want to put on a bit of a show for him! He’s going to be the greatest leader the United Kingdom has had since Winston Churchill –  once the Tories see sense and get rid of that frightful Theresa May woman! I want our countries to be friends, Ross, especially once we’ve both freed ourselves from the shackles of EU membership!’

‘And this a ects me how exactly?’

‘I’d just like you to be there, Kicker! I think you two would get along famously! The famous Vladimir Putin still asks for you, by the way!’

‘I’ve got better things to be doing.’

He goes, ‘How many of those Chorles J. Haugheys did you say you wanted again?’ because he’s no focking fool, even though he comes across as one. ‘I could have them here for you on the night!’

I’m there, ‘Fine. I’ll see you then. I’m going to pop into the nursery to see the kids –  if that’s okay with you two, I’m just going to come out and say it, knobs.’

‘Be careful of Cassiopeia,’ the old dear goes. ‘She’s become a bit of a biter since she storted teething. She almost took my nose o yesterday – although I think she may have had a sip from my Margarita when I wasn’t looking. Must be a family thing. Tequila made my mother aggressive too.’

I walk out and leave them to their breakfast. Honestly, with those two as parents, it’s a genuine wonder that I turned out as well as I did.

Into the nursery I go. Astrid, their German nanny, is looking after my – still so random – brother and sisters, we’re talking Hugo, we’re talking Cassiopeia, we’re talking Diana, we’re talking Mellicent, we’re talking Louisa May, we’re talking Emily.

They’re all walkers at this stage and they’re tipping around the room happily.

I’m like, ‘Astrid, how are you?’ but not in a irty way, because –  with the greatest will in the world – she’s not great in terms of looks.

‘I am good,’ she goes, ‘if a little tired. They are much, much work.’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no,’ picking up Cassiopeia, ‘I believe this little one nearly took the old dear’s nose o yesterday.’

Astrid suddenly goes quiet. There’s something on her mind.

I’m like, ‘What’s wrong? You can tell me.’

She goes, ‘She give her tequila to drink.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your mother. I see her. She thinks she is in The Shelbourne Bar with her friend – is it Blothnid?’

‘Yeah, no, that’d be Bláthnaid Ní Chofaigh. They go way, way back.’

‘She say, “Here you are, Blothnid –  down the hatch!” and she gives tequila to the baby.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I say to your father. I say, Fionnuala is sick, sick woman. She

cannot be around children. But it is me that he blames. He says that if I am watching the children properly, then no one could give them alcohol.’

He actually has a point, in fairness, although I don’t say that.

She’s there, ‘I would tell him what to do with his job except then I would worry what would happen to these children if I was not here.’

I’m like, ‘Fock.’

‘You must persuade your father,’ she goes, ‘that your mother needs full-time care – even more than these children.’

All of a sudden, my phone rings. I can see from the screen that it’s Oisinn.

Shit.

I’m thinking, Does he know? As in, does he know that Sorcha’s sister’s baby might possibly be mine? I’m going to have to stort simplifying my life at some point. Whatever he does or doesn’t know, I decide to just, like, brazen it out with him.

I answer the phone, going, ‘Oisinn, how the hell are you?’

He’s like, ‘Hey, Ross, how are you?’ and he sounds in alright form.

I’m guessing he knows fock-all.

I’m there, ‘All good this end –  except the old man is about to reroute the Li ey and the old dear is pouring tequila into her children.’

‘Jesus,’ he goes, in fairness to him. ‘Hey, I’ve got a bit of news. Me and Magnus are taking a lease on Gerald Kean’s old ga in Brittas Bay.’

I’m there, ‘Whoa! Fair focking focks!’

‘We’re going to turn it into an in-patient care facility for former ad-tech and n-tech employees struggling to readjust to the real world.’

‘You’re getting a second fair focking focks for that, Dude – like it or like it not.’

‘By the way, Sorcha’s sister had her rst scan yesterday.’

‘And the good news keeps on coming.’

‘Oh my God, Ross, I can’t even begin to tell you how it felt. Well, you’ve been through it before, so there’s no need to tell you.’

I’m trying to remember was I there for any of Sorcha’s scans.

I’m there, ‘It stays with you for life, Dude.’

And that’s when he goes, ‘So which one of us do you think is the father?’

I end up nearly having a prolapse on the spot.

I’m there, ‘What? What do you mean?’

He goes, ‘Exactly that, Ross. Which one of us is the father?’

I’m like, ‘What the fock has she said? She’s a focking liar, Oisinn. If we know one thing about her, it’s that she’s not to be trusted.’

He’s there, ‘What are you talking about?’

I’m like, ‘Er, what are you talking about?’

‘I’m saying I wonder which one of us is the father –  me or Magnus? Because we both provided sperm for the transfer. We’ve both said we don’t want to know, but I suppose it’ll become obvious as the baby gets older.’

Jesus focking Christ, my nerves are in ribbons here.

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it’s all ahead of you, Dude.’

He becomes a bit, I don’t know, emotional then?

He goes, ‘You know, I don’t care which one of us provided the actual DNA. I’m going to be a father, Ross. I’m going to be a –’

His voices cracks and I decide that I can’t listen to any more.

I go, ‘Dude, you’re just breaking up there,’ and I blow into the phone two or three times, then I hang up, knowing that I have to nd out the truth, even though it could destroy our friendship forever.

The Waxy Dorgle is on Florence Road, between Vape Nation and The Vape Academy and directly opposite The Vape of Things to Come. Three e-cigarette shops on one street. Seriously, I’ve never said a word about Bray that wasn’t one hundred per cent true –  although you would have to admire the con dence of whoever came along when there were only two and thought to themselves, ‘You know what this street really needs?’

I push the door and walk up the stairs. There’s a bird standing behind the counter wearing glasses and a long, white coat, looking like a doctor, although I’m guessing she’s about as medically

quali ed as the women you see in Holland & Barrett, ogging cod liver oil capsules and muesli bors that soften your shit.

I’m like, ‘Hey,’ in my sexiest voice, because I just have a thing for women in glasses – well, good-looking women anyway.

She’s there, ‘Can I help you?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I was looking for, em –’

She thinks I’ve come in to be waxed but lost my nerve.

She’s there, ‘Do you want to make an appointment for another day?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I’m looking for a girl. She’s just storted working here.’

‘Oh,’ she goes, ‘you must mean –’

But she doesn’t get to nish her sentence because Sorcha’s sister suddenly appears from one of the treatment rooms and goes, ‘He’s here to see me, Vanessa.’

Fock sake.

She’s like, ‘Hello, Ross?’ drinking me in with her eyes –  the way she always does? ‘Do you want to come through?’ and I follow her into the – like I said – treatment room.

She closes the door behind us.

‘How are you?’ she goes.

I’m like, ‘Jesus Christ, how the fock do you think I am?’

‘I heard my dad tried to cut o your nger.’

‘Yeah, no, he seriously lost it with me.’

‘He’ll cut o more than your nger if he nds out that you’re the father of this baby I’m carrying.’

‘Well, am I? That’s what I’m here to nd out.’

She goes, ‘Who knows?’ and she smiles at me like she knows –  like she knows but isn’t telling.

I’m there, ‘Is this fun for you, er –’ and I look to see if she’s wearing a name badge. Unfortunately, she’s not.

She goes, ‘Of course it’s fun. It’s so much fun.’

I’m there, ‘Look, this isn’t you trying to pull me o in the doorway of Select Stores the night Sorcha was named the Dalkey Lobster Festival Queen with her and your old pair walking ten metres ahead of us. This is focking serious.’

Suddenly, totally out of left eld, she storts unbuttoning my shirt.

I’m like, ‘What the fock are you doing?’ although –  typical me –  I’m not exactly pushing her away.

‘You are so hairy,’ she goes. ‘Oh my God, look at you!’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, thanks,’ because I can take a compliment as well as the next man, even if the next man is Dylan Hortley.

‘That wasn’t a compliment,’ she goes. ‘You’re like a walking corpet.’

I’m there, ‘Am I?’

‘Okay, maybe that look used to be in – but it’s not any more.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Do you ever watch Love Island ?’

She’s obviously talking about those hairless dudes with the spray tans and the Turkey teeth.

I’m there, ‘I think they look weird – random, even.’

She goes, ‘Ross, if you’re back on the dating scene, you’re going to have to get with the times. No girl wants this,’ and she runs the tips of her ngers through my chest hair. ‘Oh my God, some of these hairs are actually grey.’

Jesus Christ, I can feel myself getting a chubby here. What the fock is wrong with me?

I’m there, ‘I came here to ask you if I’m the father of this baby,’ and at the same time I’m wondering if she can see the old fat intruder.

She goes, ‘I told you. I don’t know.’

I’m like, ‘You do know. You have to know.’

She smiles at me. She’s loving every second of it.

‘I can’t believe you’ve got a boner,’ she goes.

I’m there, ‘Will you stop focking around? Look, Oisinn is a friend of mine. So is Magnus. I don’t want you stringing them along. If I’m the father, you need to tell me.’

She goes, ‘Do you mind me saying, I never understood what you saw in my sister,’ and she carries on ngering my chest hair.

I’m there, ‘In terms of?’ and I am extremely turned on now.

She’s there, ‘I’ve been listening to it since I was a child –  you know, just how focking perfect she is. Mom and Dad, letting me

know that, no matter what I did in life, I was never going to measure up. I’ve had a focking lifetime of it. From the moment I took my rst steps, I was told, “Sorcha learned to walk when she was a year younger than you!” When I learned to read, it was, “Sorcha was reading at three!” Do you know what it’s like to be constantly reminded of someone else’s achievements?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, it’d be a similar situation with me and Brian O’Dris–’

‘And when I got older, it got worse. Commendation in the Young Scientist of the Year competition. All Ireland Debating Champion. Head Girl. Maximum points in the focking Leaving Cert. And now look at her. She’s got the career that her daddy always wanted her to have –  whereas I’m a total fock-up. Except when it came to you. It was always a comfort for me to know that I could have her husband any time I focking wanted.’

‘And you did, in fairness to you. You could probably have me right now. Would that treatment table hold our weight?’

She goes, ‘I hate her! I focking HATE her!’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I’m picking up on that. So, like, are you going to tell me?’

She’s there, ‘Tell you what?’ and she stops playing with my chest hair.

I’m like, ‘Tell me whether or not I’m the father of your baby.’

I swear to fock, she goes, ‘How would I know?’

I’m there, ‘Er, simple maths?’ even though I was the goy in school who thought Henry the Eighth was the inventor of fractions.

I’m not even joking.

She goes, ‘Ross, I had sex with you the day after the sperm transfer. There’s no actual way of knowing.’

I’m there, ‘But you can get, like, a DNA test done before you even have the baby?’ at the same time buttoning up my shirt.

‘Unfortunately,’ she goes, ‘I’m afraid of needles.’

I’m like, ‘Afraid of needles? You’re covered in, like, tattoos.’

But all she does is smile at me. She’s there, ‘I’m going to enjoy the intrigue over the next nine months. And I’ll tell you something else,

Ross. I really, really hope that it ends up being your baby? Just to see the look on that focking bitch’s face.’

I’m there, ‘I’d like to speak to Fionn de Barra, please?’

Yeah, no, I’m talking to Ciara Casaubon, who isn’t even his secretary, by the way. She’s a focking maths teacher, who went to –  believe it or not – King’s Hos and who snowballed Gussie Grennan, the Gonzaga number eight, in the jacks in Hollywood Nights back in the day.

She goes, ‘I’m afraid Mr de Barra is busy.’

I’m thinking, A school principal? Busy? Yeah, give me a focking break.

I’m like, ‘Yeah, you’re not even his focking secretary, can I just remind you?’

‘His secretary is at lunch,’ she tries to go, ‘and I told him I’d make sure he isn’t disturbed.’

I’m there, ‘How’s Gussie Grennan? Do you ever hear from him?’

‘Who?’ she tries to go.

You wouldn’t focking blame her wanting to forget him. Gussie had a face like a roofer’s knee.

I’m there, ‘Doesn’t matter. Can you maybe just go in there and tell Fionn that Ross O’Carroll-Kelly is here to see him?’

‘He doesn’t want to see anyone,’ she goes, ‘and he especially doesn’t want to see you.’

I’m there, ‘I’ve come here to apologize to him.’

‘He doesn’t want your apologies.’

‘Who the fock are you to say what he wants and doesn’t want? Correct me if I’m wrong but you didn’t play rugby with him.’

‘Please leave – or I’ll call the Gords.’

I’m like, ‘Call the focking Gords,’ and I just push my way past her and into his o ce.

I’m the last person in the world he expects to see – that’s judging by his reaction.

He’s like, ‘What are you doing here?’

I’m there, ‘Believe it or not, I’ve come to apologize.’

‘I don’t want your apologies,’ he goes.

I’m like, ‘Look, Dude, I’m sorry I told the Feds that it was you who ashed his orse in The Thomond Bor!’

He ends up totally ying o the handle then.

He’s like, ‘That’s not what you focking did!’ seriously, seriously losing it with me. ‘You appeared in court, pretending to be me. You pleaded guilty to indecent exposure using my identity and you allowed my name to be put on the register of sex o enders. And when I was suspended from this job because of it, you said absolutely nothing.’

I’m there, ‘I was Head Coach of the Ireland women’s team. I swear to fock, I was going to come clean after the Six Nations?’

He’s like, ‘You stood idly by while I was labelled as a sexual deviant and ostracized by colleagues who once respected me.’

‘Well,’ I go, ‘I’m sorry for all of that.’

He’s there, ‘No, Ross! You don’t get to say sorry! Why are you apologizing anyway? Oh, let me guess –  they’ve set your trial date and you want me to go to court to speak on your behalf.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I go, ‘but no.’

‘What, your old man’s crooked solicitor is xing it for you?’

‘No, he’s not. I’ve told Hennessy to stay the fock out of it. When the time comes, I’m going to plead guilty. I’ve already been –  Erika used the word –  cancelled ? I mean, the shit that people are saying about me on Twitter. But I’m happy to take whatever punishment is coming my way.’

He goes, ‘Sorry, are you expecting a round of applause or something?’

I sort of am ? And that’s me being brutally honest.

I’m there, ‘Dude, like I said, I don’t care what people out there are saying –  a brilliant coaching career has come to an end, I’m a sexual deviant, blah, blah, blah. I just don’t want to lose your friendship.’

He goes, ‘My friendship? We’re not friends! We were never friends!’

‘I disagree.’

‘A friend would never do something like that.’

‘Again, I beg to di er. I’ve done way worse than this on you.’

‘Yes, you have. You’ve spent half your life focking me over. Not just me, but Christian, JP and Oisinn as well.’

At the mention of Oisinn, I go suddenly quiet.

He’s there, ‘You’re toxic, Ross. You’re poison.’

‘Well, if one good thing has come out of all of this,’ Ciara goes, walking around to his side of the desk and standing next to his chair, ‘it’s that we’ve nally faced up to the problem with the culture in this – and all – same-sex schools.’

‘The fock are you banging on about?’ I go. ‘The fock is she banging on about, Dude?’

Fionn sits back in his chair and gives me a big, smug smile. ‘As the Principal of Castlerock College,’ he goes, ‘I’ve made the decision that, from September of next year, the school will be going . . . co-ed.’

I’m like, ‘Co-ed? Does that mean you’ll be letting –’

‘Letting girls in,’ she goes. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it means.’

I’m like, ‘I can’t believe what I’m actually hearing here.’

‘Well, whether you believe it or not,’ he goes, ‘it’s happening.’

I’m there, ‘I’m trying to imagine what Father Fehily would say if he was alive today. Jesus Christ, he didn’t believe that women should be educated at all.’

Fionn just goes, ‘The world has moved on since Father Fehily’s time. We have to accept that a lot of the things he held dear have no place in modern society.’

‘The only thing that all-male schools succeed in doing,’ this –  again –  Ciara one goes, ‘is turning out people like you,’ meaning me, and she doesn’t mean that in a good way.

And then I suddenly notice something. It’s in, like, their body language. Fionn never could hide it when he was into a bird and then I notice her put a supposedly comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Oh my God,’ I go, ‘you’re, like, riding each other.’

Fionn’s like, ‘Get out of my o ce,’ which is as good as an admission of guilt.

I’m there, ‘I don’t focking believe it. She’s put you up to this, hasn’t she?’

Now it’s her turn to go, ‘Get out. I will call the Gords.’

I’m there, ‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ all the time staring at Fionn. ‘You do know she snowballed Gussie Grennan in the jacks in Hollywood Nights, don’t you? It was the night that Ulster won the – mad when you think about it now – Heineken Cup.’

Again, she goes, ‘Who the fock is Gussie Grennan?’ and I suddenly remember that it actually wasn’t her? It was another girl called Eilish Tunney. I don’t know how I forgot because the same girl tried to snowball me at a house porty in Foxrock, even though it was probably more Cornelscourt.

I’m there, ‘Actually, it doesn’t matter.’

I turn around and I storm out of there. On my way out the door, Fionn shouts after me, ‘You and I are nished, Ross. I want nothing to do with you – ever again!’ which obviously hurts.

I walk back to my cor in an absolute fouler. I feel like I need to take it out on someone, which explains why I end up doing what I do next. I whip out my phone, Google the number of The Waxy Dorgle in Bray and dial it. The phone is answered on the third ring.

‘The Waxy Dargle, Bray,’ the receptionist goes. ‘Can I help you?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, can I speak to the manager, please?’

Thirty seconds later, some random dude comes on the line.

He’s like, ‘This is Deco Gahan. I’m the manager. How can I help you?’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, just to let you know, Deco, that I was in your place for a wax the other day and I ended up itching all over.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Deco goes. ‘Who was your therapist?’

I’m there, ‘I, er, don’t know what she’s called. She’s, like, new there?’

‘It’s probably folliculitis.’

‘That could be her name alright. Although I thought there was a Z in it.’

‘No, I’m saying that’s likely what you have,’ Deco goes. ‘Did you indicate on your client intake form that you had sensitive skin?’

I’m there, ‘Er, I wasn’t given a form?’

He’s there, ‘You should have been given a form.’

‘Woulda, shoulda, coulda,’ I go. ‘Seriously, whatever her name is, the girl should be focking sacked.’

Honor’s got her nose stuck in her phone as per usual and she’s smiling, which is something she literally never does, except when something has gone disastrously wrong for someone else.

I’m there, ‘Is that Joel? Not that it’s any of my business.’

‘No, it’s not Joel,’ she goes, not even looking up. ‘It’s MacDara.’

I’m like, ‘MacDara? Jesus! And do you mind me asking –’

‘Clongowes,’ she goes.

I’m there, ‘I was actually going to ask is MacDara his rst name or his second name?’

She’s like, ‘It’s his rst name.’

I actually make a st and punch the air.

I’m like, ‘Fair focks, Honor! Fair focking focks! And do you like this dude? This MacDara?’ because I love saying his name. He clearly comes from money.

She just shrugs. She’s there, ‘He’s okay.’

All I can do is just shake my head.

I’m there, ‘Your old dear probably wouldn’t thank me for saying this, Honor, but I think you cracking Reese over the head and then driving him up the mountains in the boot of a cor is one of the best things you ever did?’

She looks at me. She’s like, ‘Really?’ because –  yeah, no –  she’s always loved positive feedback. Takes after me in that regord.

I’m there, ‘It’s created a whi of danger about you, Honor. Dudes love that. I mean, rst Joel, now MacDara. They’re all over you like ies on –’

The doorbell all of a sudden rings.

She goes, ‘That might be Joel. He said he might call in.’

I stand up and I’m there, ‘What’ll I tell him?’

‘Tell him I’m busy,’ she goes.

I’m there, ‘You know how to play them, Honor. What am I saying? You learned from the master!’

I tip out to the front door, ready to give Joel the big F.O. But when I open it, it ends up not being him at all. It ends up being Ross Junior – as in, like, Christian and Lauren’s eldest ?

I’m there, ‘The fock do you want?’ which is no way to greet your supposed godson, I accept.

Out of nowhere, he suddenly bursts into tears. And I’m like, ‘Sorry, kid, I’m not having the best of weeks.’

‘Roth,’ he goes, ‘I neeth your help. Thomeone ith trying to blackmail me.’

I’m like, ‘Blackmail you?’ and that’s when I see the laptop in his hand.

‘Yeth,’ he goes. ‘I thidn’t know whath elth thoo thoo.’

I’m there, ‘Fock’s sake – I suppose you’d better come in.’

I bring him down to the kitchen. He sits down at Erika’s old dear’s table and I’m like, ‘Show me.’

He slides the laptop across to me and I open it.

The rst thing I see is this, like, pop-up screen, which is all black with, like, white writing on it. It’s like:

WARNING! We have gained access to your device, including your contacts, webcam and internet browsing history! We are aware of all the websites you have visited in the past two weeks and we have in our possession intimate recordings of you perusing those sites!

I’m like, ‘Perusing? Is that an actual word?’

‘I think tho,’ Ross Junior goes.

I’m there, ‘Perusing? It’s de nitely a random one.’

I carry on reading. It’s like:

These videos, as well as your browsing history, will be sent to all of your contacts unless you give us $10,000.

And then that’s followed by some small print, saying that they accept Bitcoin, which seems to be the way a lot of businesses are going.

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, you’re not being blackmailed, kid, you’re being sextorted.’

‘Thexthorthed?’ he goes.

And I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, no, that’s it.’

He turns on the waterworks again. He goes, ‘Whath am I going thoo thoo, Roth? Thith ith my mom and thad’th computher. Theeth people are going thoo thend e-mailth to everyone in their contacth litht.’

I’m there, ‘Well, what kind of shit have you been looking at anyway?’ and I check out his browser history.

It’s mostly, like, lingerie websites. Exotica. Sultry Sleepware. Bra Bra Black Sleep.

Yeah, no, I’m no stranger to one or two of them myself.

The Lace Lounge. Pleasure Chest. Knickers to You.

He’s there, ‘My mom thaith ith only natural for me to be curiouth about my thexualithy.’

I’m like, ‘Your old dear has got a lot to answer for, kid. I’ve been saying it for years. On the focking record.’

Jesus Christ, he’s only twelve.

I’m there, ‘But if she’s so open-minded, I don’t understand why you can’t just tell her you were looking at knickers and bras.’

But then I scroll further down through his history and that’s when I see the – yeah, no – porn sites.

I’m like, ‘Foooccckkk!!!’

He tries to go, ‘I thidn’t look at them, Roth! They mutht have jutht popped up when I opened other pageth!’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, that’s what I used to tell Sorcha whenever I forgot to clear my search history. Focking hell, kid.’

‘Roth,’ he goes, getting upset again – he can really turn it on and o , this kid, ‘you have thoo help me!’

I’m like, ‘Me? Why me?’

‘Becauth you’re my godfather!’ he goes.

I’m there, ‘Look, I’ve never said this to you before but the whole godfather idea is a bit of a bullshit thing.’

Yeah, no, I showed my face at the christening, Sorcha set up a monthly direct debit for his college fund and that was pretty much that.

‘As a matter of fact,’ I go, ‘Lauren actually sacked me as your godfather – didn’t she?’

He goes, ‘Roth, pleeeaaath! I’m begging you! My mom can’th nth outh!’ and this time the tears really stort owing?

I’m like, ‘Fine! Jesus Christ, stop crying! I’ll focking handle it, okay?’

He goes, ‘How?’

I’m like, ‘How do you think? We’re going to have to pay these fockers o .’

I call Honor. I’m like, ‘Honor? Honor, will you come in here?’

Twenty seconds later, Honor walks into the room. She sees Ross Junior sitting there in tears.